She's Piste
After my tumultuous on-again/off-again twelve year relationship with snowboarding, I've given it the finger and found the nirvana I've been searching for, where I can skin up mountains free of thought and descend in quiet solitude: skiing. But not just normal skiing. No I have to bump up the difficulty level by making it telemark skiing. So not only am I attempting to figure out how to guide two planks down a hill, but I'm supposed to bend down at every turn with the grace of a debutante picking a flower. There are no flowers at my feet as of yet. I'm not nearly as clumsy as yard sale victims would have you believe your initial foray into skiing should be. I've been out five times and can safely rock the bunny hill, even the steeper parts of the bunny hill. A few times I've tried to take my confidence to the steeper blue runs, but quickly retreated back to the fluffy bunny hill with my tail between my legs. Right now those blue runs have the appeal of leaping off the Empire State Building. I have a 2 hour lesson next week with a Norweigen instructor named Nils, the kind of guy who looks like he was born in a Swedish chalet and slid into a ski suit and mini-skis before he hit the ground. After my first lesson with him he said I was doing great and naturally athletic and that by the time my lessons were done I'd be an advanced intermediate. Oh god is he naive. If only he could hot wire my brain so it would coordinate with my legs and that could be true.
The next day was even better when Aaron's picture appeared in the Seattle PI as the one representation of the CH ride. So not only was a Pirate representing the ride, but he's riding a tall bike and not wearing a helmet. Those Kaskaders had their lycra in a wad over that one. Go Aaron...let's all just ride bikes.
My fellow Aquarian, Denny T, put on a marvelous alleycat in honor of his bday. He had us huffing and puffing up and down every damned hill in Seattle in search of all things named "Denny." Denny Hall, Denny Park, some dead guy named Denny, bombing down Denny hill, into the bar at Denny's. Not only was it his bday, but the race happened to fall on one of the windiest days on record. We were nearly standing still trying to pedal down Lake WA Blvd, then slingshot north up Cappy Hill. My calculations showed almost 2100 ft of elevation gain in 20 miles. I was on Rosemary who delighted in reminding me of how my climbing legs have disappeared in the past few months. I swear her 70" gear grew up to 90" that day.
Somehow the stadium nears and I can stop. My stomach hates me. My lungs hate me. I hack and cough. Everyone is there so I figure I'm dead last. But hell at least I'm done. As we mill around we get to watch Denny and Aaron battle it out for the trackstand contest. Denny is zen. Aaron is wearing a weird raincape. One hand. No hands. Aaron puts a footdown and Denny wins! The winners are called out. Denny's new trophy is a triumph of engineering. A silver chalice with the Greenlake path etched along the base. The race winner is a sly, closet Cat 1-2 who joined the race at the last minute. And he's wearing SHORTS. Alas Denny did not win the chalice this month, but he does go home with a huge bottle of cheap beer. And me? Shit if I didn't come across first for the ladies. I had no idea. But you want to give me a bottle of blackberry brandy? Hell ok! I haven't had liquor in my system for about an hour so it's time to replenish. Thanks!
Did spend the happy day with the best gang of biking hooligans a girl could ever ride with. A few of us met at Shorties for pre-ride pitchers and they even bought me expensive beer! No PBR tonight. Off to Westlake to meet up with everyone else. Daniel greeted me with mini chocolate cupcakes! Half of them were gone and some of them were smooshed, but dang what a thoughtful jesture. Off to Uwajimaya for a differnt kind of menu. Sake and bean cakes and seaweed oh my! Then up up up to Cappy Hill to see the new 2020 bike shop in the works. More beer and seaweed for everyone. Alex is going to have a sweet shop there. Perfect neighborhood and perfect friendly shop for bikes in need. We left Alex and his dog Beanie to race down 24th off Cappy Hill. Some of the kids flew down the hill unclipped...in the rain...Rosemary and I leaned on the brakes and cranks. I just turned 35 and don't want to end it now. We regrouped at Husky Stadium then rode up to Pies n' Pints where Zack surprised me with the most awesomest cake ever made: A Guinness chocolate cake with Baileys icing. Holy YUM! He was so sweet and bought the whole cake so everyone could enjoy. More beer, more fun. More riding. Off to the Nickerson Saloon. At this point I barely remember where my pedals are, let alone how to ride. Not something you necessarily want to admit. But somehow a few of us stayed together enough to navigate down Stone Way and over the Fremont Bridge to the next locale. At this point I was done and could only intake water. Unfortunately the grill was closed but - aha! I still had a sandwich I bought at lunchtime. And the beancakes from Uwajimaya! Nothing like squishy powdery mystery globs when your at the end of a night of drinking. Everyone devoured them and only briefly mentioned how nasty they really looked.
Ok. Some black ice on the roads. Ok yeah. Hmmm that looks like a nice covering of snow on the ground. Interesting. We pulled into the Kelly Creek race area and were met with 3 inches of snow and ice as far as the eye could see. Fields and fields of crunchy, slippery white stuff. I had to put my jeep into 4wd to get into a parking place. (Note to self: the 4wd still works, we're good for mountain travel this winter.) I got out of the jeep and just started laughing. There was nothing else to do but get the right attitude off the bat. My friends were rather dumbfounded. They had never mountain biked before this cx season let alone ridden on snow let alone on ice. They were about to get a quick lesson. One junior reported back that it had taken him 20 minutes to ride around the course in some ridiculous granny gear. Great. I didn't have a choice in gears and would have to make do. I worried about having to slog through the entire effing course. Great. Everyone else and their silly gears. So much for going all ballz out on the last race of the year. Well if I wasn't going to do well then neither was anyone else. haHA!!
We did a few warmup laps and I got ample satisfaction when it proved that everyone else was having as much difficulty as I was. Slipping, sliding, swerving, swearing. Going no where fast. I did notice that after a hundred people had taken a few laps that a nice track was forming to make the going a bit easier. Hmmmm. This might be possible. There was still ice in spots, but having some semblance of trail would make things much more doable.
I quickly realized that passing girls would be the trick to the whole race. The narrow track that had been worn down in the snow was the only way around the course. If you tried to pass by going around in the fresh snow you instantly sunk down and slowed to a stop. Fuck. I stubbornly tried it twice and finally relented to Plan B: Pass whenever an dry spot opens up and go like hell. It worked. Boom, pass two girls on a well worn stretch of snow. Boom, pass a third over a bumpy dry section of roots. Tennis Shoe Mom was on the side of the trail with a mechanical. Sorry honey. The race was slow and like playing hopscotch. I'd catch up to one girl and have to pace behind her slow ass until I could pass her. But it worked. At every opening I hopped past her like she was standing still. Aren't you going to try and catch me?? Jeez what's your deal? Tired already? I have a feeling I pissed off a few of them as I recklessly bombed past, but damn girls it's a RACE, it's not a debutante ball. I'm not going to be polite about this. Not now.
Down the off-camber and across the ice field. I'm cautious not to fall, but am I too cautious that she might catch me? I have no idea where she is now. I can't hear her. The cowbells and the snow and the cold air on my face provide me no answer. I gun it as much as I can in this stupid snow. I'm across the last part of the cow field and approaching the final icy climb. Is she behind me? I can't tell. Is the crowd is cheering for everyone or for me or for a final showdown? I pick my line and gun it up the hill. I pass a few more guys who have lost it all. The announcer calmly calls my approach to the finish and says nothing about my rival so I finally realize that she is no threat. I cross the line and hear my placing: Third. Not fucking bad! Sweet! My best placing yet and I feel like I'd hardly ridden at all. The snow and the pacing behind others didn't take it out of me. It was more a race of patience and strategy and knowing when to make your move. Hmmm somewhat like track. A good lesson to carry over the next few months until I feel that surge of competition again.
All ballz out for 2 months of singlespeed cyclocross racing plus a few alleycats and drunken weekday rides thrown in for extra merriment. The knees had cried uncle. The mind and the body had thrown in the towel in search of rest and recovery. I could barely pedal my bike let alone walk up a flight of stairs. The race at Steilacoom had pushed my right knee to the edge of tolerance. One too many steep hills. A dozen too few gears. The thought of getting up in the dark on a Sunday morning to race made me roll my eyes and pull the covers back over my head. Fine. I'll rest. I'll take a few weekends off from racing and 
I wanted to return. My three weeks off had done me good. I stirred. My legs wanted to throttle again. My mind was eager to challenge myself and others. I wanted my points back! I had averaged 5th place out of 30 ladies in every race. On my singlespeed dinosaur mind you. Only two races left in the season and I was not ready to call it quits. South Seatac's sandpits called my name and I etched it on my calendar.
I sprinted the last 200 feet as Tim egged me on to pass one last lady. Flying through the finish line and came to a stop and leaned over to hurl, not my breakfast shake, but a mouthful of warm spit. I watched it drip off my heaving lip and into the mud at my foot. I love this shit! Hugs all around. Faces splattered in mud like we're six years old. Mud in teeth. Mud in ears. Mud up your ass. What a fabulous return. Next week at the Kelly Creek final it's all ballz out. The last race. The last hurrah. I'm ready to eat more singlespeed love.
Watching waiting luring teaching living. Not forgetting what remains to be discovered after leaving the comfort of all that is known. Detaching from what is expected to be obtained and finding how it is to live. The smallness, the goodness of a temple standing solitary in the high desert. Its colors breaking the line of the sky and earth with markings of golds and reds and yellows and greens and blues. Its walls resonating a deep, steady song into the air like a siren beckoning a weary sailor. The eyes of Buddha guiding you along your path. Open the door and breathe in the warm, sweet smell. Close your eyes and absorb the moment. Welcome home.
